


substance of divinest show

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: fire & powder [21]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hallucinations, Humor, Leshens (The Witcher), Magic, Monster of the Week, Near Death Experiences, Rescue, Ruthlessly Cherry-Picked Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: Lambert would like to just ride east around the Mahakam mountains and then south toward Reidbrune and Belhaven, but Pie insists on being a menace at all times and throws a shoe just outside Razwan.“Godsdamnit.”Lambert has an interesting few days.
Series: fire & powder [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698274
Comments: 41
Kudos: 159





	substance of divinest show

**Author's Note:**

> pie: i think i will cause problems,,, on purpose.
> 
> i'm late! we're stunned, truly, i'm sure. i'm just the most put together author you've ever met, and how shocking is it that i have posted a day late - /s
> 
> anyway. lambert does end up in a sticky situation here but he lives and recovers entirely, i promise.

Lambert would like to just ride east around the Mahakam mountains and then south toward Reidbrune and Belhaven, but Pie insists on being a menace at all times and throws a shoe just outside Razwan.

“Godsdamnit.”

Pie just snorts at him and does a little shimmy, kicking her shoeless foot out pointedly.

“I should just leave you at the next town and cut my losses,” Lambert snarls, but all the same walks her slowly to the gates of Razwan, watching to make sure that none of the terrain is too rough or that she’s too unbalanced.

Traveling to Beauclair will be faster on a horse, that’s all.

* * *

Once Pie has been to see a farrier and is stabled for the night, Lambert wanders about Razwan looking for something to do and ends up finding a contract.

An  _ interesting  _ contract, even. 

He hasn’t seen a leshen in years –  _ decades, _ actually, and the last one he had seen hadn’t been on a contract. He’d just been travelling and walked into the wrong forest to piss, that time, and upon seeing the gaping socket of a deer skull peek around a corner had  _ quickly  _ chosen somewhere else to relieve himself. A leshen isn’t a creature he’d willingly take on without preparation and the prospect of getting paid for it. 

The carpenter who gives him the contract is a plain man with a surprising amount of gold to offer him. He claims that the leshen has already killed three men, and the reason for no posted contract is that the men are seasonal workers with no one but him to miss them.

It’s suspicious as fuck, is what it is, but when the carpenter tells him  _ leshen, _ well, he’s too curious to say no.

Also, the forest outside Razwan is plenty ancient enough to be home to a leshen, as well as decimated enough to be home to an  _ angry  _ one. So he decides to take the carpenter’s word – and half his payment, just in case he  _ is _ walking into an ambush – and go investigate.

Getting to the woods would be faster on horseback, but he’s almost glad Pie is out of commission for this. He doesn’t know if leshens can control horses, but he’s not about to find out the hard way that they can and get trampled by his own damn horse.

Never mind that he’s relatively sure the mare will try to kill him at some point. She’s got a mean gleam in her eye that lends itself to violence.

It’s nearing dark when he gets to the edge of the woods. His plan is to skirt the edge, see if his medallion or his senses pick up on anything, and then head back to prepare once he knows more. It’s something he’s done a hundred, a thousand times, and for monsters much more dangerous than a leshen.

Of course, this is the time it goes tits up. 

His medallion gives him a split second warning, but it’s not enough; the roots come up and snag his ankles, tumbling him down into the foliage at the edge of the treeline. He lands hard enough he goes dizzy for a moment, the fading light coming through the canopy spinning into streaks.

When his head clears, he’s been dragged further into the woods. The roots have let go of him, though, so he stumbles to his feet and draws his sword; it’s mostly useless without relict oil, but a blade is a blade is a blade, and it’s better than nothing at all.

The ground shaking is the only warning he gets this time, the leshen suddenly appearing before him from the gap between two ancient, towering oaks. It’s  _ massive, _ bigger than any leshen Lambert has ever seen – bigger than  _ any  _ monster Lambert has seen, in fact, and he realizes very quickly that he may be entirely out of his depth. In fact, he realizes when the leshen raises its arms and disappears into a puff of black smoke, he’s  _ fucked. _

Nothing to be done, nothing  _ he  _ can do – he’s not fast enough, not  _ prepared  _ enough, nothing but a sword and the magic embedded into his blood. He spins, Igni flaring, but there’s nothing, nothing but the sounds of the woods, branches creaking and leaves whispering. Wolves, in the distance, howling.

The leshen appears to his right; Igni catches it but not in time, not quick enough. He spins and the leshen is behind him, to his left, in front once more, back to behind – 

_ Pain. _

The worst pain he’s ever felt, spreading out from his ribs and belly to snare at the rest of him, knees collapsing out from under him, his sword flying out of his hand on impact. He scrambles forward, or tries to, pain flaring through his body with each new movement, hands clawing at the dirt. Behind him he can hear the leshen,  _ feel _ it, the ground shaking as it advances. 

He’s never going to make it to Beauclair. He’s never going to see Jaskier again, or Aiden, and they’ll never know what happened to him. The leshen won’t leave anything but scraps to be scavenged, no body to burn, no medallion to collect – not that they’d know where to find it, anyway. Not even Eskel would.

Behind him, the leshen roars. He can’t turn, doesn’t have the strength to move anymore past the pain, but he hears an impact, steel on wood. Feels the flaring heat of Igni, too hot to be anything else, close enough to sear the leather of his boots. Another roar, the high whine of steel signing through the air, another blast of Igni, another, another, the smell of leather melting.

Silence.

He can hear himself, now, wheezing with each short, choppy breath he takes in. And someone else, a too-slow heartbeat and the rushing breath of exertion. Another Witcher, obviously, but who – 

Being turned over turns his vision white for a split second before he sees yellow eyes and a bald head with a hellish scar bisecting it.

“Letho?” He wants to shout, to sound scathing and offended, but instead he’s breathless, weak and cracked from the pain still lancing through him.

The Viper snorts. “Couldn’t just let you die, wolf. That bard of yours is much scarier than a fuckin’ leshen.”

Lambert has a comeback, he does, but Letho shifts him again and suddenly the world goes red, then grey, then black.

* * *

He wakes because he’s in pain. The hushed conversation he can hear somewhere to his left probably has something to do with it, too.

“He’s lucky he’s alive,” a feminine voice, one Lambert recognizes but can’t pin through the haze of pain, “one inch in any direction and it would have been immediately fatal, even for a Witcher.”

“Is there anything else you can do?” Letho, with his distinctive voice that’s rough but not deep.

“I can help the pain, but nothing else. He’s going to be laid up for a week, maybe more.”

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Lambert’s voice is shot, weak and cracked, and even talking hurts.  _ Breathing _ hurts. Everything hurts.

Prying his eyes open is about as easy as taking the Killer with one hand tied behind his back, but he manages, and when the blurriness clears he finds an unfortunately familiar face hovering over him.

“Merigold,” he sneers, or tries; it sounds more like a plea. 

The sorceress rolls her eyes. “Lambert,” she says back, more exasperated than anything. “How are you feeling?”

He just frowns at her. She rolls her eyes again.

“Here,” she holds up a bottle. “For the pain.” The cold glass is pressed to his lips, and he carefully tips his head up, ignoring the screaming pain in his neck to swallow what pours out. Triss, to her credit, doesn’t rush him or reach out to help any further, just carefully tips the bottle as needed until he’s managed to drink everything.

“What is that?” Letho asks.

“Hallucinogenic, mostly,” Triss answers. “But it’ll help the pain. Only thing I’ve found that actually touches Witchers, that isn’t one of those godsawful toxic things you drink regularly.”

Already, Lambert can feel the world starting to go fuzzy around him, vision blurring slightly. He sucks in a deep, deep breath, and only feels a twinge of ache, no sharp pain.

“Good shit,” he mutters.

“Obviously,” Letho snorts.

“It’ll last for a few hours,” Triss says. “It’ll be enough time to get you two somewhere safe, at least.”

“Somewhere safe?”

“There’s been rumors,” Triss starts, and there’s the sound of glass clinking. Lambert’s medallion vibrates softly against his chest. He tries to follow the conversation, knowing it’s got to be important, but he’s distracted by a beam of light shifting over the ceiling. It’s an odd color of yellow, and it looks almost like it’s dancing.

He shakes himself and tries to tune back in.

“Nilfgaard,” Triss is saying, likely to answer a question of Letho’s, but what kind of question would have an answer of  _ Nilfgaard? _

The light shifts again, catches his attention. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and ignore it, but finds that there’s a different kind of lightshow happening behind his eyelids. He hums, head lolling as he tries to chase the odd, colorful shapes he’s seeing.

It takes a moment to grab his attention back.

“...what the Emperor wanted anyway,” Letho says.

“Yes, but – ”

Lambert tries to keep listening, to find out what they’re talking about – Nilfgaard, some kind of threat? – but with his eyes still closed, he’s suddenly fading. The colors disappear into blackness, and he’s gone.

* * *

He wakes a second time to movement, but he can’t seem to parse it. It’s not a horse, the gait is wrong, but there is a horse nearby, he can smell it. 

He finally manages to pry his eyes open to find he’s being carried by a massive fucking snake.

He snorts. 

“Letho?” he asks.

The snake grunts. Lambert doesn’t know if it’s an acknowledgement or a dismissal, but either way he keeps talking as he watches the snake head above him morph through different colors.

“I have a question I’ve always wanted to ask,” he yammers, half-slurred as his head tips back suddenly. He’s looking at – Triss, yeah, that’s Triss, but since when does she have wings? Wings look weird upside-down. He cackles. “Hey, hey, Triss, maybe you’d know.”

“Know what?” She turns toward him, and her wings turn, too. They’re the same color as her skin, a soft brown, but have a layer of shimmering iridescence as well. Lambert is distracted by the sight for a split second before he remembers what he was asking.

“Does the snake have two dicks?”

Letho groans, and Lambert cackles some more. He can’t seem to lift his head again, but that’s fine. The shifting colors are back, but with his eyes open this time. It’s like he’s had too much White Gull. He laughs some more.

* * *

“You’re not going to make it to Beauclair.”

Lambert groans, rolling over. He’s...in a bed? He doesn’t remember that.

“Why are you shouting, bard?”

“I’m not,” Letho says. “And I’m not your bard.”

Lambert slits his eyes open to find Letho’s not a snake anymore, just a bald-headed, ugly Witcher. He groans again. 

“Fuck.” Lambert groans a third time. The colors are back, but they’re making him feel sick, now, twisting and spinning around. His back is starting to hurt.

“Think that potion is wearing off,” Letho says. 

“What potion?” Lambert asks.

“This one,” Triss answers, appearing out of nowhere at his side. He jumps and grunts when it hurts.

“What the fuck,” he growls, turning his head to look at her. “Merigold, what are you doing here?”

He feels like he should know the answer to that. He...does know the answer to that. Leshen. Letho and Triss saved his life. 

_ Fuck. _

Triss rolls her eyes and leans toward him. Her image trails after her, as if he’s seeing triple, quadruple. He squeezes his eyes shut again, stomach turning and starting to ache. 

“Drink,” she says, and he opens his mouth. When he’s done, she pulls back, but murmurs, “Good,” as she does it.

He scowls. “Don’t,” he says, and she laughs. He kicks out in her direction, but she’s either too far away or he misses.

“What was he saying about Beauclair?” Triss asks, as if Lambert isn’t there.

Considering the way his mind suddenly drifts to the sound of mice in the walls, maybe he isn’t. He fights to tune back into their conversation again.

“...think he’s supposed to be there,” Letho is finishing. Lambert frowns. What does Letho know about Beauclair?

“With Jaskier?”

“I miss Jaskier,” Lambert blurts, entirely involuntary.

Letho snorts. “Clearly.”

“Fuck you,” Lambert snaps, rolling back over. The mice are louder now, little squeaks and scratching and...voices? 

He frowns. No, no, that’s not the mice. It’s Letho and Triss, but they...sound like mice.

What?

“Send a message,” he hears, the voice high and pitched, and followed by a squeak and more scratching. Gods, the scratching is so loud.

“...can...yeah, I’ll do that….” 

All squeaks. Lambert grumbles, turning onto his other side and pulling a pillow over his face. The mice are fucking annoying.

He fades out hearing a squeak of, “...go….”

* * *

“Psst.”

Lambert shifts and grumbles.

“ _ Psst. _ ”

“...wha….”

“Wake up, asshole.”

“...Letho?”

There’s no response except for a snort. He frowns and rubs at his eyes. His whole body feels floaty, like he’s suspended in water or…or something. When he finally manages to squint up at the ceiling, he sees the colors again.

He giggles.

“Ugh.”

He frowns again and turns his head. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the room with him. He wonders vaguely where the mice went.

Oh, and Letho and Triss.

“Over here, dumbass.”

The voice is...familiar. Like...Eskel, but not. And Geralt, too, but also not. Both of them together, maybe? But then….

“You’re an idiot.”

He turns his head to find Pie leaning into a window at his side. He jumps when he feels fingers on his neck, and turns back, but there’s no one there. He slowly turns back to Pie.

“You’re an idiot,” she repeats, mouth moving like she’s the one talking.

Holy shit, his horse can  _ talk. _

“You’re an idiot,” he says back, but there’s no bite to it. He just sounds amazed. He realizes that Pie is also green. ...or, no, purple.

The colors are shifting again, all around him. He follows the shapes for a moment and starts to giggle again.

Pie snorts again. “I don’t like you.”

“I don’t like you,” Lambert replies, distantly, still watching the colors. His giggling turns into proper laughter when some of the shapes go from blobs to recognizable things, like dicks. There’s a bunch of fucking dicks on the ceiling, and he can’t stop laughing.

“ _ Idiot. _ ” Pie says, in Jaskier’s voice, and Lambert just laughs harder.

* * *

Eventually, the potion wears off again, but the pain isn’t as bad the second time. Letho offers him a third dose, but he doesn’t take it, instead just drinking some water and eating some plain crackers. He wants more, but one look from Letho had him cowed.

He’s not really afraid of Letho, but he’s not a total idiot. He’s been impaled, and has spent three days dead asleep or hallucinating wildly; he couldn’t take the average housecat in a fight right now, much less another Witcher.

It isn’t until afternoon, when he’s starting to feel sleepy again, that it hits him.

He jolts up, grunting with the ache, and tries to scramble out of the bed he’s been living in. Letho is there immediately to push him back down.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, sharp.

Lambert groans, giving a half-hearted struggle. “Beauclair,” he says. “I – Jaskier and Aiden, they’ll worry.”

Letho snorts and shakes his head. “Lie down,” he says. “Triss sent them a message to let them know you’d been injured and won’t make it. We put it together after some of your rambling, and I guess Triss had heard some mention of it before.”

Lambert sucks in a breath. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Now lay back down, asshole, before you hurt yourself more. It’s hard enough babysitting you now, you don’t need to ruin Triss’ hard work.”

Lambert grunts but concedes, laying back down. He rolls so he’s not looking at Letho, though, and he can practically feel the way the Viper rolls his eyes.

“By the way, they don’t know about me. I’d like to keep it that way, wolf. Get me?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a reputation, I get it.”

Letho just makes a derisive noise and leaves the room. Lambert huffs and settles further into the bed, thinking of Jaskier and Aiden. He misses them. If he thinks too hard about missing their annual meeting, though, he’ll just spiral and he doesn’t have the energy to cope with it, so instead, he slips into meditation.

He’ll find them on the Path. Maybe not together, but he’ll see both of them at least once before winter. 

He swears it to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> the posting buffer is nearly gone and i have sweet fuck all idea if i'll manage to work on this series before it does lmao
> 
> so like....fair warning. hopefully i will kick myself into gear and work on this so there's a little more buffer, or at least i have a guess on when i'll be posting again after the existing buffer ends but...i make no promises.
> 
> i love y'all tho!


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